Masochist
by CaptainShakespeare
Summary: "We're more alike than you think, you and I." His stare is cold and callous. "We're both ambitious, vulnerable, and well, a little masochistic." Rated M for smut in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is mostly an introductory chapter. There will be more dialogue/action/general South Park-ish behavior in later chapters. :3**

_We regret to inform that your book does not meet our current editorial needs or direction. The structural flaws in your manuscript prevent us from making an offer for publication as well as the flat writing and lack of tension in the plot._

Son of a bitch. I grit my teeth and crumple my latest rejection letter into a wad, squeezing it so tightly my knuckles turn white and my fingernails dig sharply into the palm of my hand. The pain doesn't bother me anymore. I don't have the time to act bothered anymore; it's exhausting.

New York City _is _pain. Anyone who's lived here for as long as I have can tell you that. I was originally very excited to move here for college and get a degree from the prestigious Columbia University- unfortunately, no one told me this excitement would grow into self-hatred. Or pity. I suppose it doesn't really matter which it is; my level of care has gotten so low that I've even allowed my usually (okay, somewhat) spotless studio apartment- being all that my fortuitous career as a copyeditor (and not to mention all my failed novels) can afford me- has been overtaken by a wall, no _fortress, _of pizza boxes and Chinese takeout boxes stacked so high and so dense that it can probably protect me from nuclear war. Of course, this kind of protection comes with a price, and I'm subsequently honing my cockroach killing skills as a result. I'm no longer the Kyle Broflovski of South Park, a gullible little boy who, in high school, had discovered his aptitude for creative writing and planned out an elaborate future of book signings and constant praise for his inspiring work- Kyle Broflovki, a New York Time's bestselling author, who would drown in fan letters, not month-old leftovers. I'm a different Kyle Broflovski. I smile grimly at the failed prospects of my poetic future and decide that I had come to such a lofty state of mind because I grew up in a fucking redneck mountain town of all places. There are a million young writers whose talent immensely obliterates mine, and that's the cold, hard truth. It's difficult to find solid, original ideas that inspire passionate writing. C'est la vie, I suppose. I don't know how long I sat there, wallowing pathetically in my own miserable thoughts, but it's the buzzing of my phone that rattles me back to reality. It's only a text from Stan, but it still makes me smile.

_Hey dude, check out the Facebook thing I made!_

Facebook thing? It slowly dawns on me that I haven't even logged onto my Facebook account for at least a week. How times change. I oblige his request and find what I think he must be talking about. I click the notification icon labeled 'Class of 2007: We're real adults now, so let's get drunk to celebrate!' I roll my eyes and punch back a reply to Stan.

_You realize I'm still in NY, right?_

Despite the fact that Stan lives in Denver now, we've remained super best friends and talk almost everyday. I casually peruse the guest list as well as the wall comments, of which there are only two. I can't help but smirk at Craig's loving comment:

_Why the hell would I want to hang out with you assholes?_

How typical of him, always calling it like he sees it. There's also a more serious one from Wendy:

_Sorry, Stan! Overseas flights are expensive!_

Ah yes, that's right. I had forgotten that Wendy lives in England now with her new boyfriend who she met during study abroad in college. No, Stan and Wendy aren't together like many of our classmates expected during middle school and early high school. I, for one, am not really surprised. Marrying your elementary school crush is a lot like saying 'eh, good enough; you'll do.' 'Good enough' for me is never good enough; besides, who wants to be in love with the same person from when they're eight to when they're eighty? My phone buzzes again.

_It'll be awesome! It's gonna be in South Park, at my parents house! I scheduled it for the last weekend in November so you have 2 months to get out of any lame work obligations._

The pit of my stomach does a few flips and drops to the ground. _South Park. _Going back there will be crossing a giant threshold for me. I am usually very staunch in my opinions and my general outlook on the world, and South Park is a place I left for a reason. The future of my sanity hangs delicately on the decision whether or not to return. And I stubbornly refuse to believe otherwise. I'm fine right here where I am, working toward my dream. Despite briefly letting my guard down to experience a flicker of dread and doubt, I am hit with a wave of nostalgia as I scan through the list of invited people, recognizing all of their familiar names. Kenny McCormick. Butters Stotch. Clyde Donovan. Token Black. I'm not shocked to find one name unmistakably missing:

Eric Cartman.

Nobody has seen or heard from him since high school graduation; I'm perfectly happy with this turn of events. In the grand scheme of things, I suppose life has turned out pretty well for me- I'm a future bestselling author living in the greatest city in America while working as a copyeditor, and Fatass is nowhere to be found. He could be shooting it up in an alleyway right now for all I know or care. As if he can read my mind, I get another text from Stan.

_I'm trying to find out how to get in touch with Cartman so I can invite him too._

Get in touch with Cartman? I frown. No, he can't do that! I was _just_ reveling in the knowledge that Cartman's probably on a life sentence or he's dead or whatever. Stan must be high or something.

_Why the fuck would you invite that Fatass? _I type my reply with haste and a stirring anger in the pit of my stomach as I think about the fact that Stan is even _considering _inviting him. His reply is immediate.

_dude calm down i doubt i'll be able to find him his mom even moved out of south park the year we all left for college so i have no idea where to start looking for him_

I sigh irritably.

_So just forget it, then. Fuck him, dude. He was never really our friend._

It's true. Not a day goes by where I don't think about how lucky I am to finally be rid of that fat, sardonic tumor called Cartman. Cartman, who made my life a living hell for the first eighteen years of our lives.

_I know but I just feel bad. Everyone else is gonna be there so it only seems right to invite him._

I hate it when Stan acts like a pussy. I choose not give him tons of crap for it because we've all got our faults, but dude seriously needs to grow a pair. Twenty-three years old, and the balls still haven't dropped. He's my best friend, though, so I have to let it slide. The Cartman thing aside, I think it will be nice to see all my old friends; it's only September so I have time to mull it over a bit and let the whole idea marinate in my brain. Of course, I haven't yet mentioned to Stan the most glaringly overt reason for my skepticism in returning to South Park- my mother.

**A/N: Sorry that it's starting out a bit slow. Reviews, comments, and criticisms welcome! Oh, and I used 2007 for their graduating class since I'm writing them as 23 in 2012. =]**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed/favorited/followed my story! I wish I could send all of you baskets of kittens. I hope this chapter will be more interesting than the last.**

"Ready to hit the bars tonight?" I open the door to find two people- one of my very best friends and a complete stranger- standing outside my apartment.

"Oh dude, Kenny, I don't know if I can." I'm lying right now, but I really need a night to myself. So I'm a bad friend. Whatever.

Kenny's wide, hopeful grin dissipates almost immediately into a look of disappointment. Or possibly disgust; I can't really tell with him.

"Sorry. I really need to stay in to work on my book. I haven't touched it in a few days and well, that's not good," I mumble. As if my half-assed, although somewhat true, excuse lets me off the hook for being flaky. I've always been a bad liar. Kenny can tell I'm lying.

"You can come in," I barely have the chance to finish my sentence as Kenny, and the girl latched onto his arm, push past me. Kenny wrinkles his nose.

"I always forget how small your apartment is, Kyle."

I shrug. It _is_ small. Luxury isn't cheap these days.

"You would probably have more space in a refrigerator box!" He laughs good-naturedly.

"Who's your friend?" I ignore his smartass remark and gesture toward the young, brunette woman equipped with a vacant stare, smacking loudly on a piece of chewing gum.

"This is Misty." He leans forward a bit. "She's the one I told you about." The girl nods slightly in my direction before absentmindedly focusing her attention at her _extremely _interesting fingernails. I'm starting to wonder how mentally present she is. I shake my head 'no' and give Kenny a confused glance. This is the first I've ever heard or seen of this girl.

"The one I've been staying with since I got here."

Okay, _now_ the light bulb's gone off. Randomly two weeks ago, Kenny called me in excitement and told me he was moving to New York. I had offered to let him stay with me, even though my apartment is barely enough room for one, but he said he was staying with someone else. I didn't even ask why he was coming here; Kenny is like a ninja, always on the move. I should've known that this "someone else" is his latest girlfriend. I mentally try to come up with the number of girlfriends Kenny has had since college (at least the ones I know about) and lose track almost immediately. It's typical of Kenny- always a charmer with the ladies and a lot less shy since he shed that hideous orange parka like it was some kind of exoskeleton.

_Ladies. _Not really my thing. Men, either. Dating in general is just way out of my comfort zone; it was junior year of college that I began to consider myself asexual.

"So. How ya been, dude?" Kenny and Misty situate themselves comfortably on my sofa, and I turn my desk chair around backwards to face them. I raise an eyebrow at his question.

"Since I saw you two days ago?" I sigh. "Same…meaning not as well as I hoped."

"Kyle." He speaks with confidence and ease, but it's hard to overlook his admonishing tone. "You're doing that thing again where you're being an overachiever. Don't do that!" he says dramatically. Misty giggles.

"That's one of the things I love about you, Ken."

She smells like old cigarettes and piss, which I'm assuming is actually some really awful perfume. I'm inwardly kicking myself for letting this garbage into my apartment. Once again, I ignore his comment and smile brightly at his companion.

"So Misty. What do you do…you know, in life?" Besides Kenny, that is. I'm expecting nothing less of a total airhead answer.

"Not much. I'm nineteen years old and a high school dropout, hun." She pops her gum loudly. Of _course_ she is. At least she answered my question, kind of. She's eyeing me fervently now- making me extremely uncomfortable.

"Say, you ever tried a threesome?"

She can't be serious. Apparently Kenny doesn't think so, either.

"Wha- _Kyle?!_ You've gotta be kidding me!"

She shoves him lightly. "He ain't so bad lookin'."

"Sorry babe, but you don't know him like I do. If he's ever had a passion for sex, he hasn't shown it."

"_Kenny." _I sigh under my breath.

"My bet is he's still got his V-card." Kenny is clearly amused at my slight embarrassment.

"Godammit, Kenny. I'm right here!" There are no hard feelings; Kenny does this to everyone. Hell, if I was actually _in _a relationship, he would be pestering me for all the nasty details of my sex life. We chat for a few more minutes, sharing our various hardships- I lament my lack of publications ("I'm a fucking fantastic writer, yet no one wants to publish any of my work!"), and Kenny offers as much consolation as he possibly can. He really is a great pal.

"What you probably need is better ideas."

I wonder if my eye-roll is noticeable. That's exactly what I need to be doing- taking advice from a moronic, trashy high school dropout.

"Seriously though." Misty holds up a poorly manicured hand- really, almost half the polish is completely chipped off- and bites her lower lip. "Have you tried brain-enhancers?"

_Brain enhancers. _Fucking hell_. _I'm unsure how to respond. "Oh no, it's more structural problems than…lack of ideas."

"You know because I know someone that can help you out. Here I'll give you his info, but don't tell anyone you heard it from me, 'kay?" She pops her gum again and starts scribbling on the back of an old receipt that she dug out from the depths of her over-sized handbag.

"So he's your drug dealer," I say bluntly.

"He's my pharmacist, sweetheart. Perfectly willing to negotiate, too." She hands me the receipt. "And a real looker if you ask me."

An address is carelessly scrawled across the bottom of the receipt with a name above it- Ichabob Marley. Pharmacist my ass. This guy is a goddamned drug dealer.

"W-what's he look like?" I don't know why I even ask- felt obligated to, I guess. She pauses.

"I never seen his face. I'm only guessin'. Sounds rugged as hell but a perfect charmer." She's practically wetting her pants just thinking about this guy. I shoot Kenny a glance as if to ask, "doesn't this bother you?" If not for the fact that she's never seen his face clearly, I would've been willing to bet Kenny's girl had slept with this Ichabob Marley character a few times.

"I don't think this is a very good idea," I say sharply. Misty frowns.

"Think you're too good for this, Shakespeare?" She laughs curtly. "I know your type. Always thinks he knows more than me just 'cause he didn't grow up in some trailer." A flash of fury crosses her, and for half a second I think that maybe I judged her too harshly. Half a second, and then I'm back to hating her.

"Aw, come on Kyle." Kenny speaks with such reassurance, as if he's done this a thousand times. Probably has. "You need to chill out. Have some fun. It's just _one _time. And between you and me-" he lowers his voice- "only certain people get addicted!"

I hate to say it, but after we've all said our farewells and I'm alone again, I briefly consider it. But I suppose it doesn't really matter right now; my focus is honed in on the prospects of returning to South Park. Stan's party. All my old friends. And my family. I clench my jaw subconsciously at that last memory. I haven't spoken to my mother since we stubbornly argued over my career path. Apparently having a writer for a son isn't good enough for her. I pace my apartment for a while, a strange and annoying habit I'd picked up from God knows where- most likely a reaction to stress. I eventually find myself in the kitchen, which is never without full supplies of Dr. Pepper, gushers, and easy mac. I'm 23, and I still shouldn't be allowed to do my own grocery shopping.

"Shit," I mutter as I flop down on my bed and stretch my long arms behind me.

My thoughts gradually return to Cartman. For one ephemeral second, I consider googling his name to see if he pops up on a most wanted list or something- the mere thought makes me smile to myself. It's a little frightening- mostly to myself- but I've gotten insanely good at laughing over other people's misfortunes. As my stream of consciousness lends itself from one thought to another, my mind wanders into some formidable territory, and well, it starts to get dangerous when I think too much. I start to get anxious; I can't sleep. I pace my apartment some more. And that's how I find myself at the doorstep of one, Ichabob Marley. What am I so afraid of? This guy's name is so stupid. He couldn't have come up with something a little more original than _that_? What an asshole. As I approach his doorstep, I continue to think awful things about him- only as a defense mechanism to force myself to go through with it. Guess I'm the real asshole.

**A/N: More craziness to come in the next chapter! Feel free to leave comments and/or critiques! =]**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I was little later getting this chapter out, but I hope the wait was worth it! Enjoy! ^_^**

_It's just to help me sleep. _That's what I told myself. That's how I justified it in my brain. But deep down I know that isn't the real reason. Because I enjoyed it. Honestly, Kenny had been right.

"I'm telling you, man; I don't regret this at all. This is some pretty strong stuff, too. Well worth the price."

"Kyle, I can hear you, but I can't see you." I can practically hear the scowl through Stan's voice.

"Sorry dude, my internet's being slow again. Hang on." I quickly borrow a signal from a stronger network- borrow, not steal. Hey, if my neighbors don't want me jacking their Wifi, they should get a goddamned password.

"Dude!" Stan's face lights up. "It's been over a week since I've seen your face."

"I know. I think that's the longest we've gone these past five years without video chatting," I laugh. Actually, the reality of that is pretty comforting. No matter how alone I feel here sometimes, I still always have my best friend almost 2,000 miles away.

"So tell me about your first pot experience."

"I felt….the most inspired that I ever have been. Like I was able to perceive everything with such clarity. Life sure does seem awfully great when you're high," I pause, then add "it's a good thing to try at least once, I think."

"Yeah. I've done it a few times."

"Really, when? Where did you get it from? And how come you let me miss out on it?" All those college years gone to waste without getting high once.

"College. Mostly from that one fraternity that kept wanting me to join. And I didn't think you'd be interested, Kyle." He smiles. "Besides, aren't you a good boy?"

I frown at my old high school reputation. It's true; I was often the only one throughout grade school to actively challenge Cartman's stupidity. Maybe that did make me "the good guy". The hero. Nah. Most people fail to see the part of me that is an actual badass. That I stood up to Cartman mostly for selfish reasons. I may have been a defender of good, but I was also a defender of my own pride.

"Whatever, Stan." We talk for at least an hour, vicariously living in each other's lives. Like we were still just several blocks from each other and had been all along. Until the adult world and all its boring obligations call us back to reality.

"Alright dude. I'll see you in November."

"I haven't decided if I'm coming, yet."

Stan's strong jaw line sets in defiance. "I'll see you in November, Kyle."

"_What do you want?"_

"_Uhm." I warily slide the decrepit receipt through the mail slot. A few uncomfortable seconds of silence._

"_Okay," he says. "Hang on."_

"_I'm sorry, but I don't understand." I'm really confused. "Why exactly do you need this again?"_

"_I don't sell to people unless someone refers them to me. It's the best way for me and my partner to lay low."_

_I blink rapidly. "You're gay?"_

"_No, dumbass. My business partner. He has a database of every dealer in the city."_

_My jaw drops. "Every single one?" That can't be possible._

"_That's right. And when one gets busted by the cops, we find out who the sucker's clients were, and become their saviors. And we've never gotten caught," he boasts._

"_Brilliant." I'm actually astounded. Someone's got an aptitude for business. Say what you will about drug dealers, but these guys are pretty smart._

"_How much do you want?"_

"_I guess just half an ounce." I'm not even sure if that's considered a workable amount._

"_It's 80."_

"_Eighty dollars? For half an ounce?!" He's got to be shitting me._

"_Do you want it or not?"_

"_I do! I do want it!" Is that a hint of desperation in my voice?_

"_Well then fork over the eighty bucks or beat it. Just a warning- if you choose not to take it, don't ever come back here again. We can't be bothered with jokers who aren't serious about this."_

"_Alright! I'm serious! Here!" I cram the money through the slot and am rewarded with a small bag of the stuff. "It's for my insomnia," I say._

"_Sure it is," he snickers._

_I just blew $80 on drugs. What the?_

The next day, I decide to take a different route home from work 'cause I'm feeling a little gutsy. I avoid Midtown completely; it's less crowded this way. This city is so full of paradoxes; I wish every damn day that I hadn't come here, yet no part of me wants to leave. And if the city itself is bad enough, the subway is even creepier. I don't want to know all the horrors that occur here, but once, when Stan came to visit me, he vomited right on the platform because of a rotted rat's corpse. I laughed and told him it would probably be there for a few more days until maintenance took care of it or another rat ate it. Yes, the New York City subway is a scary place. But I've grown to find it comforting. I sit placidly on the subway, daydreaming as always, when something (rather, _someone_) catches my attention. He's sitting on the opposite end of the car with one leg propped up on the other and holds a newspaper in front of his face. I can still see his profile and stare, squinting rather, at it for a long time. From what I can tell, he's dressed nice, complete with a leather briefcase. To my alarm, and slight disappointment, he gets off at the next stop. No, wait. _"Come back," _I think. Why is he so intriguing? I guess it's mostly because there's an air of familiarity. This is not a marijuana-induced illusion; I'd know that figure anywhere. Without thinking, I follow him. I have a hunch.

I catch sight of him at the top of the escalator near street level. Taking the stairs two at a time, I sprint after him, bolting around a corner until he turns around.

"Aha! It _is _you!" I jab a finger in Eric Cartman's face.

"Kyle…." He sounds surprisingly calm for encountering someone he hasn't seen for five years. And not just someone. It's the boy he constantly tormented since preschool. "Why are you stalking me?"

Oh no. There's that unmistakable rage building up inside me. "I'm not stalking you! Don't flatter yourself."

He looks amused. "What are you even doing here, Jew?"

"What do you mean what am I doing here? I live here! What are _you _doing here is the real question." That, and why is he dressed so fucking classy?

"I'm studying law at NYU." For a moment he looks serious, as if he's no longer capable of being an asshole. Then that goddamn smirk appears on face, the one I know too well. "Know what that makes me, Kahl?"

"_What?" _I manage to get out through gritted teeth.

"A better Jew than you."

"You don't know anything about the Jewish faith, you fat fuck!" What he doesn't know is that I no longer practice Judaism.

"I don't know why you continue to harass me, Kahl."

That comment just ignites the entire explosion- when I'm around him, I can't control my rage. What an asshole; his composure is unnerving. "Stop it! Just stop it with your passive-aggressive bullshit, Cartman!"

"You're being the aggressive one, Jew!"

I silently seethe for a few moments, planning out my next words carefully so as not to sound reckless and impulsive.

"Believe it or not, Jewboy, but I've turned my life around. And now I'm smooth sailing on the ship of progress."

"Take the ship of progress and shove it up your ass!" So much for not being impulsive. I'm shaking with rage. What an excellent way to remember my school years. "I don't believe for one second that you're a law student!"

"Don't make me have to prove it to you, Kyle. I wouldn't want you to experience any humiliation. Come to think of it, what have you been doing with _your _life?"

"I'm a writer," I say defiantly. _Well, sort of. _

"Uh-huh. Are you a great American novelist? The next Stephen King, perhaps?" The condescending tone is apparent.

If I punch him right here in the street, would I get the cops called on me? He's still fat, so I could kick his ass if I wanted to. Easily.

"You haven't changed at all, Fatass."

"That's where you're wrong. I am innocence personified." He stares at me with his shit-brown colored eyes widening in mock innocence. "Well, despite that slight penchant I've always had for causing trouble."

"Wha- slight?! You tried to exterminate the Jews of America when you were nine!" Unbelievable.

He blinks rapidly. "Well besides that one time, Kahl. Let's not focus on minor details."

We stare at each other for at least a good thirty seconds. I'm too angry to speak; I'm not sure what _he's _doing.

"Well trust me when I say it was an absolute pleasure running into you Kyle, but I really must be off. I have to be up bright and early for my internship tomorrow. But really, it was a _pleasure._" I don't believe for a second that he's genuine, that smug son of a bitch.

"Why?" I spit out venomously.

"Because," he exhales deeply, "Now I can say 'I'm more successful than Kyyyleee!'" He taunts in his ridiculous sing-song voice that he's used so often throughout the years. "Hopefully, I'll see you later, Jewboy!" The amusement is so evident in his voice, his stance, everything that as soon as he leaves, I realize I am positively shaking with fury.

"Yes, you will see me again," I whisper to the cold, empty air. Because I'm gonna find where that son of a bitch lives, and kick his fat ass so hard he won't be able to stand for weeks.

**A/N: Thanks to everyone who continues to read this! I'm having fun writing it; Kyman is such a fun pairing, and in my opinion, makes the most sense out of any South Park ship. **


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hello lovelies! Here's a longer chapter for you guys to read before Thanksgiving!**

"You've got to be shitting me, Kyle."

"I wish I was, dude, but he's here. This whole time he's been here."

It's a late Saturday morning- two days after the Cartman incident, and Kenny and I are walking along the east side of Central Park, near Fifth Avenue. We're carelessly revisiting our childhood by stomping excitedly through huge piles of crunchy leaves.

"_And _he's in law school?" Kenny whistled. "Pretty impressive for a bigoted asshole."

"He's not in law school, Kenny," I say flatly. "His story is full of holes."

Kenny raises a blonde eyebrow. "How?"

"I don't know, but you can bet your ass I'll find something that doesn't add up." I don't even realize how tightly I'm clenching my fists until my fingernails create a sharp twinge of pain in the palms of my hands. I kick the ground and send leaves twirling in the air and falling on top of us.

"Did you tell Stan?" Kenny brushes debris from the flying leaves out of his light hair. He was never one to fuel my anger toward Cartman. Good call on his part for dropping my incongruent claim on the validity of Cartman's educational career.

"He wants me to invite him to that dumb party he's throwing for absolutely no reason." Stan just wants an excuse to get drunk with all his old classmates and friends. Drinking, unfortunately, is something that my best friend definitely has an aptitude for.

Kenny laughs warmly. "Aw, the Super Best Friends sure do act like a couple of teenage girls. Always gossiping and shit." I roll my eyes at his intended irony; Kenny gossips more than _anyone _I know. Shoving my hands deep into my coat pockets, I begin to think about my conversation with Stan.

"_I'm not inviting Cartman. I'm not asking him," _I had furiously texted.

"_Why not? We haven't seen him for 5 years!"_

"_Because I hate him!"_

It had taken him quite a long time to respond to that, and I thought for half a second that maybe he had given up on trying to convince me.

"_Don't you think it's time to let old wounds heal?" _I don't know why his reply gets to me. I shiver thinking of all the emotional wounds Cartman has caused. Anybody else in the world would've hidden from their old high school nemesis, not follow him. So why, after all these years, am I still drawn to him?

"So where's your girlfriend?" I ask, breaking the silence. Changing the subject at this point is a wise decision.

Kenny frowns. "I'm pretty sure she's fucking the plumber that lives above us." He shrugs his shoulders with indifference. "Can't blame her; he's an attractive dude."

Speechless, I stare at him in disbelief. My inability to form a reply hastens an explanation out of him.

"What? He's got beautiful eyes and judging by the gusto in his pants, he's pretty well-equipped too," he says with mild unconcern.

"Sounds like _you _wanna bang him, Kenny," I tease.

"Me? Nah." He yawns.

"What the hell kind of relationship do you have with this chick?" I guess I shouldn't be too puzzled with Kenny's peculiar relationship- this is how most of them play out.

He chokes back a laugh. "Relationship?! Naw, dude, we're just having sex. I couldn't care less who else she's screwing."

I hope she hasn't contracted any lovely surprises. For Kenny's sake.

"I know where he lives, too." I shove my hands in my coat pocket and allow my mind to wander from the current conversation.

"The plumber?" Kenny asks vaguely.

"No. _Cartman. _Who else?"

"But we weren't even talking-" Kenny shakes his head. "You really can't keep your mind off of him for one second, can you?"

"The bastard lives in Greenwich Village. Don't ask me how the hell he can afford that."

"How do you know? Did you stalk him?"

"Um. Sort of."

"_Dude."_

"I know, I know. It's not as bad as it sounds, though." I quickly reassure him that I'm not as crazy as I probably seem.

"Well how did you do it?"

"Um," I repeat. "All I had to do was remember the approximate time and the stop he got off at. And maybe I followed him," I mumble.

Okay. It kind of _does _sound bad. Kenny stares at me in silence. I don't blame him- there's nothing to really say to that.

"Well, it's not any less creepy," he begins warily. "But you do get points for being sneaky." He pauses, then cautiously says, "This Cartman obsession is just a little weird, dude."

"What! I am in no way obsessed with _Cartman_. I just…need to prove to him that he doesn't win. That even if he _isn't _lying, it doesn't make him better than me."

"That sounds like an obsession."

"It's not," I say decidedly.

But I'm afraid he's right. It taunts me to the very core.

Anyone who knows me well can tell you that my conscience catches up with me very quickly. Sitting at my desk, I lay my head on my arms and close my eyes.

"_Time to let old wounds heal." _Stan's words keep repeating over and over in my mind. I suppose the greatest revenge and the best way to prove that I'm better than him would be to do something that Cartman has never been able to do. Reluctantly, I stand up and head over to Lower Manhattan- not to kick Cartman's ass, but to apologize.

God, I really don't know how he can afford to live in this neighborhood. I feel so out of place here. It's mostly made up of upper-middle class professionals and wealthy bankers. Yes, this makes _perfect _sense- _Cartman _gets to live a comfortable and affluent lifestyle and I'm stuck living in Brooklyn. I grit my teeth in resentment.

I have to push these feelings of animosity aside if I am going to be civil. After knocking loudly and sporadically for a few seconds, the door flies open and Cartman is standing in front of me, wearing only a pair of sweatpants and scowling as he groggily runs a hand through his unkempt hair.

"What the hell, Kahl? It's like eight in the morning!"

"…It's noon," I say coolly. "Do you have a minute?"

"N-no. I'm busy."

"Bullshit. Let me in." I push my way past him and step inside a trendy loft apartment. _"How does he afford this?" _I wonder in awe. It looks like the type of place a trendy New York socialite would live.

"I'm seriously, Jew! I didn't say you could come in," he protests in that all too familiar whiny voice. "You are trespassing and-"

"I'm sorry for what happened the other day," I quickly cut him off. I glance at the desk next to me so as not to look him in the eyes. Sitting in a perfect stack are a set of pristine business cards that read:

E. Theodore Cartman

Ph.D Candidate, Class of 2014

Fuck everything. He isn't lying. I'm too upset to even be slightly amused at the copy of Men's Health magazine that has been carelessly tossed next to them. His eyes flash with anger and embarrassment when he sees that I've noticed it. Based on his body type, I'm betting he doesn't read it for the fitness tips.

"And I also wanted to congratulate you on your success," I mutter as my face blushes scarlet. This is embarrassing. I only look up when I realize I can hear him breathing loudly.

I bring my gaze upwards to meet his. He's staring at me- his pupils are dilated with a prominent confusion in his dark eyes. His forehead is wrinkled in thought, lips slightly parted. He looks so…vulnerable. At first, I wish I could know what he's thinking. Then I wonder why I even care.

"Thanks." He rolls his eyes when he catches my stare. "Now get out."

I glare at him; the vulnerable young man that stood before me a second ago is replaced with a pouty little boy

"Listen, Fatass. I genuinely apologized to you. Don't make me have to force a sincere 'thanks' out of you."

"You weren't genuine! I swear, you always do this shit Kyle!"

"I don't know what you think I'm doing!" I yell in exasperation.

"Oh god. This is so typical. Kyle always does the right thing to make himself look good. I'm supposed to just act like we're cool because you're _sorry?"_

I can hardly stand anymore of this awkward tension. "That's _exactly _what I'm doing; I can't believe you caught on so quickly," I retort sarcastically. "It's totally _not _because I felt guilty at all."

"I'm Kyle Broflovksi, and I'm right 100% of the time and everybody _loves _me and thinks the sun shines out of my ass because _I'm morally superior to everyone,"_ he mimics. "You're so full of shit, Kyle! " You aren't sorry, and you still hate me. So act like it."

What an unbelievable son of a bitch! "You want me to act like it?" I growl through gritted teeth. "Is _that _good enough for you?" I swiftly punch him in the gut; a sadistic smile forms on my lips as I watch him double over.

"_Kahl," _he croaks. "I swear…to…God…" He slumps against the wall and reaches out a pudgy hand, clasping it securely around my forearm and hauls me down on top of him. I really don't want to fight him, but I can't let him win this. So I just sit on top of him defiantly- if he can't get up, he can't fight back. For a moment, our breathing patterns become synchronized as we're pushed against the wall in a heap on the floor. I'm about to slowly stand up and walk away. Then he takes a swing at my jaw.

"Motherfucker!" I can practically feel the bruise forming, but I don't hesitate in taking a swing right back- this time at his left eye.

"You son of a bitch goddamned ginger Jew!"

I roll my eyes, trying not to wince at the pain in my jaw. "Better a ginger Jew than a racist, fatass psychopath."

"Better a racist, fatass psychopath than a faggot!" he retorts childishly.

I frown. "That doesn't even make sense!"

"I know why you have all that pent up rage, Jew. You're gay!"

I shake my head. "I'm not gay, Cartman," I explain simply. "And how is that even an insult? There's nothing wrong with homosexuality." I don't what I'm saying- of course I should expect this kind of intolerance from the same guy who refers to Muslims as "Towel Heads".

He grins sadistically. "Aha! I caught you. You _are _gay, Kyle. You are, and that _is _why you are so angry all the time! You don't want anybody to find out! But I figured you out, you sneaky Jew! And it's a powerful thing to know someone's darkest secret," he taunts.

"It doesn't matter because it's not true! And besides, you're the one who probably touches himself to the latest copy of Men's Health!" I nod toward his desk where the copy still sits, untouched.

His face grows red, and I can't tell if it's from anger or embarrassment. Probably both.

"I have that because-" he falters. "How else do you think my body stays so hot?" His retaliations are losing momentum. But I still can't help but feel like he has me beaten.

"I don't have any pent up rage," I say as evenly as I can. Glancing around his ugly loft apartment, I find myself growing angrier and angrier at the fact that he can afford luxuries, and I can't. How does something like this happen? If he's a student and an intern, he probably doesn't even make that much money! Did he rob a bank?

"Then what's your problem? he barks.

"My problem is how the hell can you afford," I gesture around his entire apartment, "all of _this?"_

"That's none of your business!" He flinches, presumably at the pain in his swollen left eye.

"I bet your mom's paying for you," I accuse. "Poor Ms. Cartman, probably having to put her body through overtime just so her son can have nice things!"

He stares wordlessly, but adopting a defensive stance.

"Or maybe _you've_ taken up her habits! Like mother, like son, right?" I'm pushing it now; I'm delicately on the edge of Cartman's breaking point, but I'm not thinking rationally, and nothing's stopping me from going there.

"It would make sense," I continue. "You know, what with all your daddy issues and everything!"

An imposing silence hangs threateningly in the air, and I instantly wish I could take it all back.

"You better run, Jew," he says in a low, dangerous voice.

He's not kidding. There is something in his voice, in the way he's looking at me, in the way he holds himself now that I've never seen before; it makes me fearful. I played around with bringing Cartman to his breaking point, and now I'm completely vulnerable and at the mercy of this psychopath. I've never been afraid of what Cartman might do to me. Until now. So I do what he says. And it takes me several blocks to realize that he isn't following me.

The full impact of my powerful words slams through me and fills me with regret. I guess I'm not better than him.

"I'm sorry, Eric," I say aloud to the city with bitter cold and bitter people.

"Shit," I say aloud again as I slow my pace down. "Why did I bring up the dadthing?" I want to kick myself; I deserve to have Cartman beat the ever-living shit out of me. I'm angrier now than when I first got to his swanky apartment. Only now, I'm angry at myself. My words hang in the air, unnoticed to the passing crowds- New York can make a person feel very alone.

A guilty conscience can also make a person feel very alone. That's why it's three in the morning, and I have gotten _maybe _thirty minutes tops of sleep. I groan loudly as I run my hands through my thick, auburn hair. I'm going to need to do something I haven't done in a very long time- I'm going to have to, for lack of a better phrase, rub one out.

Yeah, I'm asexual; so what? I still get urges every so often. But to clarify, I would never want it from another person- I've compared handjobs to when someone is using your camera to take a picture, but they don't know how all the buttons work. This is something I used to do back when I fought with Cartman a lot, back when I was under pressure from my family, to relieve stress and anger. After today's events, there's an insane amount of repressed tension in my tired muscles. So I close my eyes and let my mind fuel images of the one thing that's ever gotten me off, the one thing that can give me unbridled satisfaction- beating Eric Cartman. This is the one time when I am able to admit to myself that Kenny has been right all along- I am thoroughly obsessed with him.

It's a weird thing to get off on, but it does wonders as I rub my thighs, thinking of everything that I could do to humiliate him. Sliding my hand down the elastic waistline of my pants, I gently stroke my hardening cock and shiver excitedly at the near-foreign touch. Every situation I visualize has him begging me for mercy, whimpering for me to spare him degradation.

I frown as I swirl my index finger around the tip; what used to be the cause of a mollifying, sadistic smile only makes me feel shame. I must've really hurt his feelings today. I growl in frustration. When my sadistic side fails me, the only place I am able to turn to is masochism. Yes that's _much _better.

Moaning loudly and thrusting my hips wildly, I think about how I deserve a swollen jaw, uncomfortable and agonizing. The intense feeling of pain and pleasure grow as I arch my back, my breathing rhythmic, yet furious. The feeling of myself, grabbing and teasing and pulling, in all the spots I love to be touched, my cock twitching at mere thought of Cartman tangling his pudgy fingers in my wild mane of hair, growling in a low whisper,

"I'm gonna teach you a lesson, Jew," before he pulls. Hard.

I'm whimpering breathlessly as sweat cascades down my pulverized jaw line, thinking of him biting the sensitive flesh of my inner thigh, and I can't help but shamefully think how his daddy issues that I ruthlessly teased him about earlier might cause him to enjoy this type of sexual humiliation, too. How if I really wanted to apologize, I would do to him everything I've imagined him doing to me just now. It's not long after picturing myself giving him strict and excruciating discipline that I feel the familiar sensation amassing in the pit of my stomach- spilling my damp, hot load all over my hand and belly.

I know I'll feel guilty about sadomasochistic fantasies (I always did when I used to have them more frequently) in the morning- how the one person I've ever masturbated to, is the one person I can truly claim that I hate. But for now, my heavy-lidded eyes close with a pleasant sleepiness. Because with the pain comes the pleasure- after all these years, I think I finally understand Cartman's legitimate insecurities. It's anthropology at its finest. I'm going to find out what makes Eric Cartman tick, tremble, and even moan.

**A/N: I've always thought Cartman and Kyle were both dominant, but also both vulnerable to a certain degree. It makes for a really interesting sexual dynamic that I'm looking forward to **_**fully **_**exploring later on (wink, wink).**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Chapter 5 is here! This is a filler chapter, mostly. I'm not good at those XD. Hence why it took forever to post. I'm not totally happy with the way it turned out. Thanks to everyone who has read, reviewed, favorite'd, and/or followed my story! You keep me motivated.**

If I'm going to scrutinize Cartman's behavior, I'm going to need to think like him. Trying to win his "friendship" is going to prove to be very difficult. But I have to do it if I ever want to expose his weaknesses. So, the question is, what would _he _do? In fact, it's a pretty simple solution. So I put on my sweetest smile and pay him a visit.

"Get out of here, kike!" He looks angry as he stares at me once again from his doorway, but I can't help but think I see a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes.

"You were right, Cartman," I say brightly.

"Wha-?" He scowls, and I can tell he doesn't have the slightest idea what I'm talking about.

"I know I'm right, dickface!" Quick recoveries are what he's best at.

I sigh. _"Be as pleasantly fake as possible," _keeps drilling through my brain.

"I wasn't genuine before, but now I am. And I wanted to show you that I _am _truly sorry." I pause to let my words sink in. He says nothing, "I'll buy you KFC," I say quickly, remembering his childhood passion in the form of breaded heart disease.

His face twists in surprise. "Y-you'll buy me chicken?" I don't blame him for sounding so skeptical. He reminds me of a puppy, the way he's standing- head tilted, eyes wide with anticipation.

"Yeah," I say quietly. I can't believe I'm doing this. For the record, I'm _not _an ass-kisser; this is totally different. This is for the sake of revenge.

He begins speaking quickly as if I might rescind my offer. "Crispy. White meat. Extra gravy on the side. Bring it here. Tonight." And he promptly shuts the door in my face.

"Asshole," I grumble as I walk away.

Several hours later, I walk back to Cartman's, hoping that this peace offering is a step in the right direction in getting him to reveal the source of his vulnerability. It's not _that _manipulative; it's perfectly understandable. Why wouldn't I want a deeper glimpse into the psyche of the fat bastard that tormented me for years? Veiling my every move with kindness is the best weapon I have. Besides, he's manipulated me plenty of times. I can be just as devious as this psychopath. And the best part is he'll never suspect it from me. It occurs to me as I approach his apartment for what seems like the one hundredth time that he has never seen mine. I would prefer to keep it that way.

"Gimme that." He swings the door open and snatches the KFC bucket out of my hands. I follow him inside.

"I forgot about the extra gravy," I mumble. Not really. I wanted to spite him just a little.

"Well, why don't you just rip my balls off while you're at it?"

"You're welcome, Cartman," I say stiffly.

I wander around his apartment so as to not allow myself to blow up at him. I notice his desk is conspicuously clear of any magazines. I suppress a smile at the knowledge that he's a Men's Health subscriber.

"You've really changed, Cartman," I observe aloud. I suppose he _has _in a way, but it's pretty ironic that I should say this while he's cramming KFC into his mouth.

"You haven't," he shoots back.

I clench my fists and grit my teeth, willing myself to not lose my cool.

"I _have _changed," I assert with all the politeness I can muster.

"No, you still do that thing that you always do."

"What thing?" I ask pointedly. I swear to God if I lose it….

"That thing where no matter how much of an asshole I am to you, you still try to make sure we're cool," he says through a mouthful of chicken. "_You _apologized to _me,_ yet who is really the bigger asshole here?"

I frown, deep in thought. It pisses me off a little that he kind of has a point.

"I mean," he continues, "you're _always _a constant. Always there to challenge me with your pathetic Jew counter-attacks. And then, once the battle is over, you always do something or say something that shows you want reconciliation. Without fail."

I consider this, but don't reply.

"If our lives were chemical reactions, you would be energy because you're _always constant," _he finishes.

I gawk at him. I've been here less than fifteen minutes, and he's already trying to psychoanalyze me. It's true that I always do this; only, I had never thought about it before.

"Magnetism is complex. Still only a theory, though. It's either attraction or repulsion. Nothing in between," he murmurs vaguely, and I wonder if he meant to say it aloud. I know he isn't talking about actual magnets.

This sudden intellectualism he possesses is quite startling. Jesus Christ. It's so odd; as far as I can tell, he's still his usual twisted self. And now he's throwing me glimpses of this profound knowledge he miraculously acquired somehow. He stares at me as if he can read my thoughts before glancing back down at the chicken.

"I've always kind of been like this. Speculative, I mean. My brain capacity isn't as small as you would like to think, Jew. I just knew how to hide it better when we were younger," he mutters. "Here." He nudges the bucket with the remaining chicken toward me.

"So," I say slowly, wanting to out-do his intellectualism. "If we deconstruct our relationship- friendship, rather," I add hastily at my poor word choice. "It's obvious the two of us associate each other as enemies. So, for example, I relate anything negative to you, and you do the same to me."

I'm surprised when he gives me a crooked smile. "Yet we still managed to hang out every goddamn day."

I guess that's his way of agreeing with me. "You're the objective correlative for everything that's wrong in the world, Fatass."

He blinks. "Fuck, Kahl. You don't even know what that means!"

"Yeah, I do," I grin smugly.

"Nerd."

What a hypocritical douche! But I find that his insult does not bother me. His magnetism comment, on the other hand, has struck my intrigue.

_What the fuck just happened? _I shake my head idly as I wait for the Subway. To anyone unfamiliar with the two of us, it would seem simple. I was nice to him. He was nice to me. Except he wasn't _nice _exactly- he just wasn't a total dick to me. But it's not simple. _Magnetism is a complex theory indeed. Touche, Cartman. _Whenever someone is an asshole, I usually avoid them. I have a strict zero tolerance policy when it comes to drama. Except when Cartman's involved. When it's Cartman, I fight back. Strange. I thought I would be clever and learn about his weaknesses- but the truth is, I think I may have learned mine. Part of me can't help but wonder if the sly bastard is attempting to use reverse psychology on me. Damn him.

"Let me get this straight, dude." A puff of smoke escapes Kenny's lips as he takes another drag. "You actually _enjoyed _hanging out with Cartman?"

Well when he puts it _that _way, it _does _sound crazy. I shrug instead. We're in my apartment, partaking in one of my new favorite activities.

"I guess so." I suppose the only reason I mentioned this to him is because I'm crazily mellowed out right now. I let out an insane laugh, all inhibitions completely gone.

"Okay," he says reluctantly. "But I'm just going to remind you one more time that this is Cartman you're talking about. You'll regret saying any of this once you're thinking straight." He lets out a snort. "_Straight," _he repeats. "From the way you're talking, it seems like the two of you had a pretty hot date."

"Oh yeah, if you think psychoanalysis and deconstruction are hot. Let me tell you, Kenny, that's one of the closest things in my experience to resemble a date. Don't ruin the magic for me," I tease. Kenny's always been a pro at picking up my sarcasm where others have failed.

"Whoa," he says, also joking. "That's not something I ever thought I would hear Kyle Broflovski say." Seriously, he says, "Look, I guess it's cool if you want to try and be his friend and all. But don't you think you're laying it on a little thick? Buying him KFC?"

I stare blankly for a few seconds. "Huh, what?" I snap out of my daze.

He exhales deeply. "You are fascinated with Cartman. Yes or no?"

"_No," _I laugh derisively.

I'm just mad that he's beaten me. My fascination lies in finding a way to take this motherfucker down a notch. His future PhD. His classy ass apartment. His fucking perplexing brain power. Aloud, I say, "I'm only fascinated with exposing all of his bullshit."

Kenny shrugs. "Don't get defensive, dude." After a pause he continues, "Okay, how about this? You are fascinated with proving him wrong. Even though sometimes he's actually been right?" he suggests.

"Probably." I hate to admit that maybe it _is _a fascination.

"But why?"

"I don't know," I answer truthfully. With paranoia increased in my current state, my eyes go wide with shock. "Do you think he's noticed?"

"Noticed that you like proving him wrong? I think you'd have to have your head up your own ass not to notice that."

"No, that I'm fascinated by him!" I whisper with a rising panic. I don't even realize how ridiculous it is that I'm whispering, as if he might somehow hear me.

"So you admit you're fascinated?"

"I….I didn't _mean…_stop it, dude!"

He laughs. "It seems you lose your sharp wit when you indulge in your new habit."

"Nu-uh." I reach for his coat sleeve from my sitting position on the floor, but I just end up face-planting into the carpet instead.

"You're fucked up right now. You probably shouldn't smoke this til you learn how to handle it."

Truthfully, it's the only I can write now. It's unfortunate, but I've pretty much given up my long sought-after goal of becoming a bestselling author. I am now of the opinion that writing is a lot like being a hooker- you'd better find out if you are good at it before you start charging. I don't know where my creative spark went; I used to have brilliant ideas (well, according to my teachers) that would explode into a well-crafted piece of writing, but now it just seems that my writing is forced. Empty. A hopelessly smoldering flame. But not with this. With this potent remedy, I am able to breathe fire into my words. It has new life- which is exactly how I feel since I started my game with Cartman. It's supposed to feel satisfying, but I only find myself getting angrier at him because he _does _have a direction in his life, apparently, and is actively pursuing it while I still feel stuck- wandering, lost and empty, like some eighty year old war veteran. Disgusting.

I used to lie awake at night thinking about how much I hated him. How much I wanted to hurt him. How satisfied I would feel if I continuously excelled while he failed. He hadn't crossed my mind nearly as much for close to five years now. Those years were spent with the same tiresome shit clouding my thoughts- academics, writing, surviving in New York, graduation, jobs. But tonight, I feel a rush of welcome excitement as lie awake, thinking of the enigma that is Eric Cartman.

**A/N: I feel like Cartman is majorly OOC in this chapter…? Or maybe he's just a little more grown up at 23 than at 9. Also- random, but what is up with all the Kyman hate on tumblr recently? Quit starting ship wars, people! We don't take kindly to your type.**


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